Who Turned Off the Sun Today? A Quick Saturday Life Update from New Hampshire

Mid-afternoon, Saturday, August 17, 2024, Madison, New Hampshire

As I sit down to pen this life update at 3 PM, the sun remains concealed by a heavy curtain of grey clouds. Despite the temperature being fairly mild, the dreary light and the gloomy, overcast skies make this mid-August Saturday feel so unfriendly that the prospect of lacing up my walking shoes, grabbing a hiking stick, and heading out for a stroll on Huttwil Drive seems utterly unappealing. If only the sun were shining and the skies a bit clearer, I’d eagerly embark on that walk. Unfortunately, the weather reflects my current mood—a perfect match, but not in a good way.   

What’s really unsettling me is the imminent relocation to South Florida, the unknowns surrounding M-Day, and the relentless worries preying on my mind like vultures circling. I just hope that when the cavalry finally shows up—whenever that may be—I can bring along the things I cherish most to Miami, including my books, movies, and music albums.

Recently, my thoughts have been so jumbled that I misled myself into thinking I was working on the fourth vignette from Scene Five in Chapter 19. In reality, I’m still on Vignette #3. This dawned on me after I reviewed the outline I’d sketched out last night. Maybe if there weren’t such long intervals between vignettes, or if my mind wasn’t racing at breakneck speed, I’d remember having already completed three segments of Scene Five. But with restless nights and lingering frustration over the leasing issue, I find myself somewhat…unsettled.

Talking about Vignette #3, I crafted it this afternoon right after a lunch of scrambled eggs and bacon. Sticking closely to the outline, I omitted only the unnecessary or slightly problematic bits due to inaccuracies. This vignette turned out to be quite lengthy: Microsoft Word’s word count function reads five pages and 1,325 words. That’s a tad longer than my typical 1,000-word goal per work session. While not exactly front-page news for the New York Times, it does brighten my day just a little.

Here’s a brief excerpt from the vignette:

III: Interlude in Red

 Henry’s Clipper Piano Bar and Grill

Saturday, March 18, 2000, 4:30 PM

The Clipper Piano Bar and Grill is a sanctuary from the bustling streets of Manhattan, a place where time seems to slow down just a bit. I’ve been sitting here for a while, nestled in a corner booth with a view of the door, just in case Maddie walks in. The day’s New York Times is spread out before me, the headlines shouting about the 2000 Presidential election—Bush, Gore, the primaries are heating up, and it’s all anyone can talk about.

I’m dressed in my off-duty professor’s uniform: Levi’s 501 blue jeans, a light blue and white Columbia University sweatshirt boasting the school colors, and a blue windbreaker that’s seen better days. My New York Yankees cap is perched atop my head, shadowing my eyes, not quite hiding that I haven’t shaved today. Maddie likes it when I look a little rough around the edges, and says it adds to my charm. I’m not so sure about that, but I’ll take her word for it.

The weather outside is typical for March—there’s a chill in the air, the last gasp of winter trying to hold on as spring fights to break through. It’s the kind of day that makes you appreciate the warmth of a place like Henry’s bar, with its rich mahogany and the soft glow of the lights.

As I leaf through the newspaper, glancing at op-eds and checking the sports updates, it’s more of a routine than an engaging activity. This afternoon, my thoughts are not here; they’re with Maddie, eagerly waiting for the moment she steps through that door.

And then, without warning, she’s here, and everything else just fades away.

The scent of jasmine and orange blossom fills the air, and I hear her voice, a playful echo of our first encounter, “Excuse me, but is this seat taken?”

The newspaper slips from my fingers, fluttering to the ground like a startled bird. “Maddie,” I say, standing so quickly my chair scrapes against the floor. “You’re here.”

She’s a vision in red, the fabric of her dress clinging to her like a second skin, cinched at the waist with a black belt that echoes the sleekness of her boots. Her broad-brimmed hat casts a shadow over her sparkling hazel eyes.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she replies, her lips curving into a smile as she leans in for a kiss. It’s a light brush of lips, but it promises more.

I don’t have much to add, except to say that I hope you all have a great weekend. See you tomorrow!